Kenny McCormick: BJ Queen
by Deiter Ginsberg
Summary: It's hard to stay friends with someone after you've come home to find them blowing your dad. Rated 'M' for Kenny being a literal slut. If there's traction, I'll post more.


It's hard staying friends with someone after you've come home to find them blowing your dad.

Kyle Broflovski was finding this out the hard way, as his white-knuckled grip on Kenny's throat tightened to an ironlike vice, holding the blonde aloft a few inches above the ground.

"KYLE!"

But Kyle seemed only vaguely aware of his father's feeble attempt to unwind his hands from around Kenny's throat. Thankfully, years of doling out sloppy wet beejers on the loading dock behind the school had taught Kenny how to hold his breath for a really long time. He knew he just had to wait for Kyle's adrenaline spike to fade, then he'd be able to breath again.

Poor Kyle. It was truly a pitiful scene to walk in on. There they were… Gerald Broflovski lying stark naked and splayed out on Kyle's bed like an untrussed Thanksgiving turkey. Kenny in just his muscle shirt and boxers, curled between Mr. B's hairy thighs like an overcooked prawn, going to town on the dude's chode like it was gonna pay off his final year at Yale.

Kenny had known it was a bad idea from the start. But hey… Kyle's dad got off on the danger, and Kenny would sooner ride a sandpaper dildo to the moon than accept a less than 5-star review on his Yelp page for failing to meet all of a client's expectations.

"Yousonofabitch!" were the first coherent words that came hissing from Kyle's clenched lips as he valiantly attempted to kill his friend.

In a panic, Mr. Broflovski grabbed the nearest thing he could find - which, in this case, was a junior league bowling trophy Kyle had won a few years ago - and promptly bludgeoned his son across the back of his head with it.

Crack! went the trophy, breaking in two across Kyle's occipital bone.

WHUMP! went Kyle's body as it ragdolled to the ground like a dropped sack of potatoes.

For a few eonic seconds, no one spoke. Kenny rubbed the soon-to-be bruised part of his throat, catching his breath as Mr. Broflovski stared down in pale-faced horror at what he'd just done.

"Kyle!" the older man said, dropping to his knees beside his son. "Jesus Christ, I killed him!"

Kenny's mouth felt yucky. He made a note to grab gum from the gas station down the street once they were done. "Naw."

Stooping, Kenny leveraged the thumb and forefinger against Kyle's eyelids, prying them open. "Hmm...," he said, licking his chapped lips. "...pupils are PERLLA…" He felt around the back of the boy's head beneath his ushanka. "...no crepitation…" Leaning in, careful not to disturb the boy's cervical spine, he checked either ear. "...and no discharge from the ear canal…" Gathering up the boy's wrist, he pressed the tips of his fingers against Kyle's radial artery. "Pulse regular. Yep… he's just knocked out. Great job Mr. B!"

Mr. Broflovski looked up, eyes distended in shock. "W-wh… what should I do?"

Kenny shrugged as he made lazy work of getting dressed. "Well for starters, pay me. Beyond that, I dunno. Maybe say it was all a bad dream?"

"Sheila! My wife! Oh god… what if he tells her?!"

"He probably won't. Kyle's a pretty level-headed guy. He wouldn't want to do anything that would make you and Mrs. B get a divorce."

None of this seemed to allay Gerald's anxiety, however, as he continued to hyperventilate through his teeth, standing stark-naked over his son's unconscious body.

Sensing that the formalized business aspect of their relationship wasn't going to return anytime soon, Kenny fished Mr. Broflovski's wallet out of his discarded pants. Opening the billfold, he rummaged out the five crisp Andrew Jacksons he'd been promised for his services, depositing the now-empty wallet on the nightstand. "Well, I gotta skedaddle Mr. B. Shoot me a text if you ever need another blowie. I'm booked out till next Thursday, but if I get an opening in my schedule I'll let you know."

And with that, Kenny about-faced and slinked out of Kyle's room, leaving a naked and perplexed Gerald staring after him, eyes wide, mouth agape.

After making his way down the carpeted stairwell, Kenny threw open the front door, the chilly noonday air stinging his face. He stopped to light a clove cigarette he had pilfered from one of the goth kids, then tightened the hoodie of his favorite orange padded jacket down around his face.

For some reason, Kenny almost felt bad. Deep down inside, in that area behind your ribcage where most people tended to store their conscience. It was a hard sensation to place, and one which Kenny didn't fully understand.

Finally chalking it up to hunger, he pushed off into the afternoon sun, crunching over the fresh fallen snow covering the Broflovski lawn en route to his next appointment for the evening.


End file.
